


Permanently Out of Synch

by ryssabeth



Series: Metropolitan Art [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Homeless Character, M/M, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire breathes in as the world breathes out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Permanently Out of Synch

Eponine is used to being tired—ever since she grabbed Gavroche and got out of her parents’ house as soon as she could, she’s been a very tired soul. But that’s all right, because Gavroche is worth it—because he won’t turn out like her, scooped out and tired, with bones that creak like rusty hinges. And the rusty hinges of her body are only going to get stiffer as today progresses, because she has work in two hours and has to go get Gavroche from school.

And so her body feels many more hours older than it is as she pushes out the double doors of the dance theatre—her last class, an elective more than anything—and she finds Grantaire sketching on the steps, huddled in the corner between the building and the railings of the stairs.

“Gran _taire?_ ” She lets the door fall shut behind her and Grantaire looks up at her with bleary eyes.

“Hello, ‘Ponine. How was class today?” He looks exhausted, but that is nothing new.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on the corner of _Republique_ and _Saint-Paul_ today?” She crouches next to him and asks quietly.

“Oh—yes. Yeah, I was. And I was there for a while—I got to draw a lovely girl in a hijab today, and the way fabric falls is truly something spectacular, and she wanted to keep it and I couldn’t say no, though I hadn’t ever really drawn a person in a hijab before.” He blinks at his sketchpad—a new one, by the looks of it—and says, “Technically, I came to see Enjolras. But, I realised on the way here, that was stupid. And so I came to see you instead.”

Eponine wants to sigh, but keeps it pressed inside her chest. “Probably a good decision on your part.”

“I _can_ use executive brain functions,” the page before him is blank and _that_ is something odd. “I just choose not to, sometimes. So, again, how was class today?”

“All right, very tiring. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” it’s a breath, barely words at all, “I do.”

A question is on her tongue— _do you want help to reinstate your credits? Are you thinking of coming back to school?_ And she would have asked had Jehan and Courfeyrac  not passed by and then backtracked to come up the stairs and greet her. ( _An hour and forty-five minutes until work._ And she really should get going.)

“It’s Eponine! And Grantaire!” Jehan greets with a grin. “How are you two today? Did everyone have a productive day?”

Eponine makes a face at him, standing from her crouch. “My day was marginally productive until you two decided you wanted to chat. I have to get Gavroche and to work, you know—not that I don’t enjoy your company.”

Grantaire shifts beside her, tossing his sketchpad in his bag—and, _ah_ , there’s a bottle of bourbon in there, she can see it—and he stands as well, an easy smile pulling at his lips. “I can go get Gravroche for you. Your spare key is still in the same place, right?”

( _“Spare key?”_ Courfeyrac whispers—and Eponine rolls her eyes.)

“Yeah, it is. Grantaire you’re a Godsend.” He fiddles with his blue knit cap abashedly, pulling his knapsack over his shoulder.

“Hardly—if God sent me to you, it wasn’t out of any love.” He blinks, realising that he spoke without meaning to, realizing that perhaps he should have thought before he spoke. “Uhm. I’ll go get him, then—he’ll be asleep when you get home, Eponine. Catch you all later.” And he trots off with a short wave and a smile, heading toward the street—not the bus stop—to begin the walk to Gavroche’s primary school.

“Your friend is something else,” Courfeyrac says.

Jehan considers him thoughtfully, watching him disappear around a building. “That’s a word for it.”

Eponine sighs—“Grantaire is an idiot—a beloved idiot of mine.”

-

Gavroche is safe at home, tucked in bed, and Grantaire sits on one of the ferry docks, under one of the orange streetlamps, overlooking the Seine. His trainers almost touch the water, and they would if Grantaire stretched, just a little. But he doesn’t have replacements, hasn’t got any kind of replacements for anything of his at all. He could—maybe—if he took money for art.

(But the only payment he ever takes is booze and the people at the shelters know it.)

He breathes a fifth of the bottle of bourbon into his lungs as the world breathes out, the dichotomous relationship between Grantaire and the world around him never being more clear than when the buzz is on the cusp of inebriation. In, breathes the world, and our breathes Grantaire, causing an off-kilter pulse that squeals with the sound of nails-on-a-chalkboard.

( _Love at first sight_ , they say.

No, that’s not exactly how it works.

It’s when the beloved _speaks_ , shaking worlds and opening the universe for inspection that _love_ is even a proper word for anything.

And— _fuck—_ Grantaire has never done anything by halves.)

The Seine rolls beneath his feet and the bottle of bourbon is a comfortable weight in his palm. Grantaire breathes in. The world breathes out.

He stands, looking out over the water, his brain pulling itself apart as he pictures the glorifying leader that is Enjolras standing atop one of the footbridges, speaking to the masses, starting a rally for God-knows-what.

And Grantaire laughs at himself, taking the steps up away from the ferry dock and heads in the direction of the shelter, his knapsack over his shoulder and the bourbon in his hand. (He needs to shower, wash his clothes.)

Grantaire tips back the bottle and breathes in.

The world breathes out.

-

Enjolras takes the Metro 9, not for any particular reason other than he overslept—and there’s something of particular interest going on near the capitol this Saturday—a peaceful protest of the most recently proposed decrease in taxes—which, of course, the upper class is very enthused. The poor—the small and the destitute—are disadvantaged by this law, up for a vote this coming month.

And so Enjolras tapes posters for the protest in the Metro station, not glancing haphazardly around him, to perhaps garner some support from _anyone_ —because the _ABC_ will be there, with or without the people.

But people mean numbers and number increases the likelihood of success considerably.

“Ah. A protest,” says a voice behind him, and Enjolras passes a glance over his shoulder, finding Grantaire behind him, knit cap resting on his curls, blinking sleepily. “What about? I could just read the poster—but I think I’d rather hear it from the mouth of one of heaven’s emissaries.”

Embarrassment burns brightly on the back of his neck. “It’s a protest on behalf of those victimised by the new tax legislation.”

“Hm,” Grantaire cocks his head, his eyes following Enjolras as he steps to the side. “And you think that legislators listen?”

“I think that they have to, if enough people are sore about it.”

“No one _has_ to care,” Grantaire tells him, and the embarrassment turns to anger in a split-second. ( _Why does Eponine speak to him?_ ). “And certainly no one _has_ to listen. Yes—you could very well vote them out next term. However, the law will get passed before then. And you think the poor—the victims, I’m assuming—want to _make_ themselves the victims in the public eye? Probably not.”

“You don’t know until you try,” Enjolras grits his teeth—it’s either that or missing the train to school. He can’t leave a speech half-done.

The mocking smile on his face shifts into something else and the sarcastic tilt of his brows soften. “Very right, I suppose. But sometimes trying just confirms what you already know.” Grantaire’s eyes flicker to the poster on the concrete pylon. “Well. See you on Saturday then, Enjolras. Don’t want to miss your train, do you?”

The Metro 9 pulls up, easing into a stop, and Grantaire walks away, adjusting his hat and taking a seat on the bench where Enjolras had seen him the first time, and he pulls out his sketchpad and begins to draw.

Enjolras makes his train—but only when he can tear his eyes away, and even then, just barely.


End file.
